Wizard's Daughter

by Catherine Coulter

  "Well, of course that's quite right. What is your point, ma'am? That I am not good enough to marry the Earl of Mountjoy, even though you believe he is poor and a scoundrel?"

  A spasm of rage seamed Lady Mountjoy's mouth. She re­alized she was getting far afield and couldn't find the road. "You are certainly not good enough to marry the real Earl of Mountjoy! Nicholas, the earl? Bah, I say. Neither of you should carry that proud name! And your name—La Fontaine—the man wrote nothing but silly fables about rab­bits and turtles racing, of all things—ridiculous!—morality tales that have no bearing whatsoever on life."

  "Well, to be honest yet again, I fear you are right. But don't you see, I somehow misplaced my own name and had to cast about for a new one. Since I love sly foxes and vain crows, you can imagine my delight when I learned that Jean de La Fontaine wrote such charming tales. La Fontaine—it floats rather nicely on the tongue, don't you think?"

  Lady Mountjoy looked hath amazed and furious. In fact, she looked as though if she'd had a gun, Rosalind would be ly­ing dead at her feet. She shook a plump white fist, three large rings on her fingers, in Rosalind's face. "None of this is to the point, my girl. You will be quiet."

  "Then why, ma'am, did you bring it up?"

  Lady Mountjoy heaved and huffed and Rosalind feared for her stays. "The fact remains, you are not a real La Fontaine."

  Rosalind said, "Well, naturally not. I already explained that to you. I must say, ma'am, you don't seem to have found out very much about me. Perhaps you don't have a very competent solicitor."

  "Glendenning is an idiot. He even allowed Nicholas to claim my son's tide. It is my very special friend, Alfred Lem­ming, who is competent. Unfortunately he is in Cornwall at the moment, visiting his moldering estate in Penzance."

  Lady Mountjoy had a lover? Rosalind said, "You mustn't blame poor Glendenning about losing the title. I believe the law of primogeniture prevents any other course of action. Nicholas was the firstborn, after all, and despite his father's machinations, he is the rightful Earl of Mountjoy."

  "Primogeniture, what a ridiculous word, what an out­moded, outrageously unfair bit of law. It is ancient, not at all to the point in the modern world.

  "Nicholas should never have come into the title and that's the truth of it. My precious Richard should be the earl.

  "I have friends, missy, friends who know the Sher­brookes, friends who have told me about Ryder Sherbrooke and his collection of little beggars, one of which you have been for over ten years. Ah, I can see the shame in your eyes. What do you have to say to that?"

  "I say thank you to God, every single night, that Ryder Sherbrooke found me and saved me life. Do you think I should do more? Oh, dear, all my money comes from him as well. I did knit him some socks one year for Christmas, and he did wear them, bless him."

  Rosalind sincerely prayed Lady Mountjoy wouldn't fall over with apoplexy. Her powerful lungs looked ready to burst through her lavender bodice, her fists knotted at her sides. Perhaps Rosalind should stop laying it on with a trowel.

  Miranda, Lady M o untjoy, was frustrated and baffled by this far too smart young lady with her glorious red hair, which even Richard had remarked favorably upon, unwill­ingly, of course. She wished the girl's hair were coarse and vulgar, what with all the thick riotous curls, but it wasn't. And those blue eyes—her own boys' father had had such blue eyes, beautiful eyes—but he was dead, that inconsider­ate lout who'd really been too old for her at the time she married him, but she'd insisted—and then he'd had the gall to croak after barely twenty years. She yelled at Rosalind , "You are not paying proper attention to me, missy!"

  "Ah, it just occurred to me that once I am wed to Nicholas, I shall take precedence over you. You will call me Lady Mountjoy and curtsy. You will be the Dowager Lady Mountjoy."

  Lady Mountjoy picked up what was close at hand—a lovely green brocade pillow—and hurled it at her. Rosalind plucked it out of the air, laughing. She was very relieved that Lady Mountjoy did not have a cane in her hand.

  "Pray, ma'am, if you would care to be seated and con­verse like a reasonable person, I would be delighted to re­spond in kind. Do you wish to leave or do you wish to sit down and calm yourself?"

  Even as Lady Mountjoy's vision blurred in her rage, she sat herself down across from Rosalind in a high-backed bro­cade chair that matched the pillow. The lines on either side of her mouth appeared even deeper, a pity. She sat perfectly straight as if a board were down her back, imperious as a judge, Rosalind thought. But there was an air of uncertainty about her now. Could it be that she'd fired all her cannon? She could think of no more insults, no more attacks?

  Rosalind rose and walked to the fireplace and pulled on the bell cord beside it. When Willicombe appeared barely ten seconds later, Rosalind asked him for tea and cakes.

  "Shall I inquire if Mistress Sophia is available, Miss Rosalind ?"

  "Oh, no, Lady Mountjoy and I are having a charming time. She is to be my future stepmother-in-law, you know."

  Willicombe did know" and it took all his training not to tell the old besom to climb back on her broom and ride out of there.

  The two ladies sat across from each other, Lady Mount­joy tapping her fingertips on the arm of the chair, frustration pouring off her. Rosalind swung her foot and whistled a lilt­ing tune until Willicombe made his stately way back into the drawing room, bearing a silver tray with tea and cakes. When all was in order, Rosalind found she nearly had to shove Willicombe out. She closed and locked the door.

  She smiled pleasantly at Lady Mountjoy. "My Uncle Ry­der always says if there is bile to be spilled, it is wise to lock the door. He also says there is nothing quite like a good cup of hot tea to set things aright."

  "A man would say something stupid like that, curse all of them to the Devil."

  "So, ma'am, would you care for tea?"

  Lady Mountjoy told her she wasn't thirsty, requested two sugars and a drop of milk, and proceeded to pour it down her gullet.

  "My Uncle Ryder is quite right about the bile spilling, don't you think?"

  "He is not your uncle!"

  Rosalind said quietly, "I know. I often wonder if I have an uncle by blood out there somewhere. Perhaps he is still look­ing for me. More likely, he believes I died many years ago."

  Lady Mountjoy appealed momentarily disconcerted. She managed a substantial snort and then snarled; "I certainly would not look for you."

  That was an impressive blow. Rosalind sat back, her cup of tea in her hand. "You never told me why Nicholas's father sent his five-year-old firstborn son away. I imagine it was af­ter you wedded his father, is that right?"

  "When Richard was ham, my dear husband knew he was

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  the rightful son, the one who deserved to follow in his foot­steps, not Nicholas."

  "What was Nicholas like, ma'am?"

  "He was an impossible child, sly, always hiding and spy­ing on me. He hated me, hated his father, claimed his father had murdered his mother and that I had helped him. I knew he would try his best to murder poor little Richard once he was born, and so my husband sent him to live with his grandfather, that mad old man. But he came back. Damn him, he had the gall to come back!"

  "I believe his mother had only been dead five months when you and his father wed?"

  "What does that matter? We were in love, we'd waited long enough. His mother was a pious creature, one to rival the vicar in black looks and condemnation. When she died of a lung infection, it was a great relief to everyone, particu­larly her husband. Even though she fancied herself a saint, she still complained endlessly that it wasn't fair the old earl was still alive—I must admit she was quite right about that. The old man had enjoyed quite enough years on this earth." She sipped at her tea. "Mary Smithson—yes, that was the name everyone had to call her. As for the old earl, he simply became more and more eccentric—thought himself some sort of magician, if you can believe that. He was mad, I al­ways thought. He raised Nicholas to hate
us all the more—"

  "But why?"

  Lady Mountjoy eyed her with loathing. "That is none of your business. Let me tell you, missy, you are not clever. You string words together that sound clever, but they are not. The old man taught Nicholas strange things, otherworldly cants and mysterious rituals, mad ceremonies with ghosts and spirits invited, the brewing of deadly potions. There was wicked magic going on at Wyverly Chase, all knew it."

  The words clogged in Rosalind's throat, then broke loose. "Do you really think Nicholas's grandfather was mad? Or deep down do you believe he was a wizard?"

  "Don't be a blockhead. There is no such thing. I told you—the old man was mad, nothing more, and he taught Nicholas bad things. I believe it quite possible that Nicholas could inherit this madness from his grandfather, that he could become crazed, and thus any hay child you presented to him could carry the seeds of madness."

  "If that is your belief, it is very sad, ma'am, for that means you are discouraging your own three sons from wed­ding and providing you with grandchildren because of the taint of madness."

  "You have the brain of a scallop. It is well known that mad­ness passes only to the eldest, never to the other children."

  "I have never heard that."

  "That is because you are ignorant. Since the old man had Nicholas to mold, he paid no attention to my three sons, didn't even acknowledge their birthdays. Even without any of the old man's wealth, they grew up straight and tall and worthy to be what they are, the sons of an earl."

  "I understand your husband wasn't supposed to be the earl, that he had an older brother."

  "I never met him but I know that Edward was a small-minded varmint of a man, always dreamy-eyed, and could never answer a question sensibly. My husband told me he spoke to rosebushes while he stroked their petals. Then Ed­ward died and the title came to the rightful son, Gervais, and he became Viscount Ashborough."

  Rosalind was no longer listening to the vitriol pouring from Lady Mountjoy's mouth, she was thinking of Nicholas's grandfather. Why had she asked if he was a wizard? Because something deep inside her believed it was true, that was why, and it was all wrapped up with Sarimund and the Rules of the Pale. She remembered Nicholas had told her his grandfather also had a copy of the book and had told him all about Sarimund. But he hadn't told him what was in the book, be­cause obviously he couldn't read it.

  Rosalind said, "What was the old earl's name?"

  "Galardi. Stupid foreign-sounding name."

  "How old was your husband when his older brother, Ed­ward, died, ma'am?"

  "He was newly down from Oxford, only twenty. Wait, are you accusing my husband of murder? You believe he mur­dered his older brother and his own wife, Mary Smithson? You are a vile-minded no-account, stupid as a mole."

  "Ah, so thinking about that worries you as well, does it?" Rosalind held up her hand. "If Nicholas doesn't marry me, he will marry someone else, someone probably not nearly as nice as I am, someone who would refuse to listen to your rantings, someone who would instruct her butler to close the door in your face.

  "I would say you're blessed, ma'am, in having me for your future stepdaughter-in-law. Are we not drinking tea to­gether? Did I not give you two sugars? I am so courteous I am not even berating you for your sons' misdeeds."

  "There is nothing to berate!"

  Rosalind tapped her fingertips against her chin. "Only imagine if Richard and Lancelot had managed to get their hands on me rather than poor Lorelei Kilbourne. And just imagine they wanted to do more than warn me away from marrying Nicholas. Just imagine they had murdered me, all to keep me from becoming their stepsister-in-law, all to pre­vent me from having a boy child. Imagine all that, Lady Mountjoy. I fancy it must bring you a certain amount of melancholy."

  "Nicholas hoved in poor Richard's ribs!"

  "I'm sorry, what?"

  "I don't wish Nicholas to attack my poor Richard again; he fights like an alley tough. My poor Richard said Nicholas is vicious, no better than an apish dockworker. Yes, Nicholas forced his way into the house and attacked my son viciously, with no provocation at all. Richard is delicate. His health is precarious. He could be badly damaged—"

  Rosalind was relieved that she had swallowed her tea;

  otherwise it would have spewed out of her mouth. "Excuse me. I thought we were speaking of Richard Vail, that very tall and fit young man who looks very much like Nicholas? You're saying that Nicholas attacked him? There was no provocation? I wonder what Lord Ramey would say to that. He is Lorelei's father, you know. I will check Nicholas's knuckles, see if they are skinned. Drat him, he knew Richard was behind Lorelei's kidnapping, and he didn't tell me. Did he hurt Richard badly? Did he really hit him that hard? Ah, his poor fists."

  "No, you pork-brained ninny, he didn't hit him with his fists all that much, he used his foot— his foot! —he kicked poor Richard in the stomach, knocked him backwards. It makes me ill that this barbarian is now the Earl of Mountjoy."

  "Hmm. I wonder if he could teach me to do that."

  "Be quiet! I don't want him to murder my son, do you hear me?" Lady Mountjoy jumped to her feet and waved her fist at Rosalind.

  "He won't, ma'am, if your sons don't try to hurt me. Do tell them that."

  Lady Mountjoy went silent.

  Rosalind hoped she had expended her venom. If so, it had certainly taken long enough. There was a knock on the door.

  Rosalind jumped to her feet to race over and unlock the door. She was profoundly relieved to see Grayson stroll in. The last person she wanted in her drawing room at this mo­ment was Nicholas. Nicholas and his stepmama in the same room would not be a pretty sight.

  Grayson nodded to Lady Mountjoy. "You are the parent of the two young men who should have had their arses kicked many times before the age of fourteen. Richard is a bully, but I'm hatting soft-looking Lancelot is the more vi­cious of the two. But to give them credit, they did have the brains to return the young lady their men had mistakenly ab­ducted. They scared her to death, but they didn't hurt her. By the way, ma'am, I am Grayson Sherbrooke."

  "I am Lady Mountjoy, not this one here."

  Grayson sketched her a brief bow. He was very relieved neither of his parents was here. From what he'd heard in the corridor, both his mother and his father would have rushed in and pounded this dreadful woman into the wainscoting.

  "That is all a lie! My poor sweet Lancelot, vicious? Non­sense! Nor is he soft looking. His is a gentle soul, he harbors a poet's heart. Know this, Mr. Sherbrooke, my sons would never kidnap a young lady, even the wrong one."

  Rosalind said, "Despite your belief in their innocence, ma'am, I would suggest you impress upon your sons that if anything happens to me, they will be dead."

  Lady Mountjoy leapt to her feet, sending her empty teacup tumbling to the carpet. She waved her fist in Rosalind's face. "You are a liar and a hussy. My fine sons wouldn't touch you, they would scarce look at you unless they were forced to. You are a nasty bit of goods." After malevolent looks at both Rosalind and Grayson, Lady Mountjoy swept out of the drawing room. They heard Willicombe moving quickly to open the front door for the lady.

  Grayson's eyebrow shot up a good inch. "She called you a liar. Now, that's all right because you are indeed an excel­lent liar. But a nasty bit of goods isn't at all accurate."

  "I suppose she couldn't think of anything else to call me, poor woman, and so it popped out. Actually, she fired off in­sults at everyone. I also got the impression she wasn't too fond of her husband. And she also has a special friend, an Alfred Lemming.

  "She knows all about my background, Grayson. I made it seem that everyone knew and who cared?"

  "Poor woman, she picked the wrong target. Hmm, now that I think about it, you always have a light hand when there is unpleasantness to deter."

  "Well, yes, I try. I suppose it's because when I first arrived at Brandon House I was terrified that if I yelled back at any­one, your father would kick me out. No, no, I know I was wrong, but still
, I was very young and afraid. Imagine not knowing who you are, Grayson, no memories of anything at all." She shrugged. "I suppose a way of behaving begun at an early age sticks well."

  "I didn't know that," Grayson said slowly. "I remember when Father first brought you home, he trembled with rage at what had been done to you, a child. And the pain in him that you would die. I remember Dr. Pomphrey and my parents spent hours at your bedside when your injuries brought on that horrible fever. I remember clearly how my father shouted to the rafters when he came running down the stairs to say you would live. Your father and mother weren't there loving you, Rosalind , but mine were. Never doubt that. Never forget that."

  She felt tears sting her eyes and swallowed. "No, I won't. Thank you for telling me, Grayson. In any case, none of it matters now. A light hand was the hast way to make her spit out nuggets as well as bile. I learned a lot from her."

  "Everyone views you as a mystery, and it is ever so ro­mantic how you came to be with us, even though it was actu­ally quite awful since you could have so easily died. You're not a no-account, Rosalind . I daresay if someone happens to remark that you are, all you would have to do is sing for them and they would admire you endlessly."

  "I did offer to sing for her, but she refused."

  He laughed. "I wasn't joking. Your voice is magic."

  "You used to think so when we were young," she said and he grinned at her, showing those beautiful white Sherbrooke teeth of his. "How is Lorelei today?"

  To her astonishment, he merely shrugged, then pulled his watch out of his vest pocket and consulted it. "I suppose she is fine now. I'm off to my literary meeting. I'll see you later at the Branson ball." And he was gone before she could say a thing, such as, In matters of the heart, Grayson, you are a blockhead. What had poor Lorelei done?